I spend the holidays with my former daughter-in-law, not with my son’s new wife. And I won’t apologise for it.
Not long ago, I turned sixty. A pension, aching legs, weariness from life and people—just like many women who carried everything on their shoulders without help, without a man’s support. In my prime, I was a hairdresser—a tough job, especially when you’re on your feet all day, forced to smile through it. These days, my health isn’t what it was, so I only take the occasional client, mostly old regulars.
My husband vanished from my life long ago. We divorced soon after our son was born—he turned out to be a useless, lazy man who did nothing but smoke in the flat and drink with his mates. Work was beneath him, though he had no trouble living off my earnings. I left without regret, exhaled—like a weight had lifted. From then on, I did everything alone. Raised my son alone.
I did my best with him. Tried to be both mother and father. Yes, there were mistakes—there was never time for heartfelt talks. I worked myself to the bone. When he grew up and left for the army, I thought, maybe now, things will be different for him.
Then he came back. Brought home a girl—gentle, warm, smiling. Emily. They married a few months later. I welcomed her gladly, even let them stay with me at first. We became friends, truly. Never argued. Cooked together, watched films in the evenings, talked about everything from recipes to books. Being with her was easy, comfortable—like having a daughter of my own.
Later, they moved out. Had a son—my first grandson. Emily didn’t want to mooch, so she found work. My son landed a good job, then started his own business. I was happy for them—it all worked out.
When I needed surgery, Emily took me to a private hospital without a word and paid for it all. Not a hint of resentment. Just—helped. I’ll never forget that.
Then, after nine years of marriage—divorce. Daniel, my son, walked out. Just packed his things and left. Said he’d fallen for someone else. Emily fought for their marriage, but he was ice. Later, she admitted she’d found out he’d had a mistress for two years. I couldn’t believe it.
The first time he brought the new woman to see me, I was stunned. Vulgar, crude, the manners of a market vendor. Words laced with swearing, lips like inflated rubber, eyes empty. I tried talking to him calmly: “Are you sure this is the woman you want to spend your life with?” He brushed me off. No wedding—his new fling “hates holidays.”
I didn’t argue. He’s not eighteen; his choices are his own. But something inside me broke. Emily and I stayed in touch. She still visits with my grandson, calls, brings soups and fruit like before. We didn’t lose what we had. But with my son… it all faded. Like he’d been erased from my life. Or erased himself.
I stopped expecting Daniel for the holidays. I knew—he’d bring her. And I don’t want that woman in my home. Don’t want to hear her screeching into her phone at my table. Don’t want my grandson listening to the way she speaks.
So at Christmas, Easter, birthdays—Emily comes. With my grandson. We set the table, drink tea, remember better days. We laugh. And I’m happy. I don’t have to welcome whatever brings me pain. Even if it’s my son’s choice.
Recently, Daniel called, said he wanted to visit. I refused. Told him straight: “Not with her. Come alone. But you won’t.” He hung up. Silence since.
And I don’t ache. I’ve lived a hard life. I know who stood by me when I needed it most. And I won’t betray the one who didn’t betray me.
I spend the holidays with my former daughter-in-law. Because she’s closer to me now than my own son. And no, I’m not ashamed.
